


you touch me once & it's really something

by jolie_unfiltrd



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, GET IT ON, and then in true marvin gaye style, jon is awkward because he is Tormented and Confused, sansa is sassy and gets by with the help of her friends, they get married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-20 00:50:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12421611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jolie_unfiltrd/pseuds/jolie_unfiltrd
Summary: Her eyes danced with mischief and he quite consciously closed his mouth, fingers flexing where they held his breeches together. Had he been drooling? He had probably been drooling.“You act as if you’ve never seen a woman before.”He couldn’t help the words that spilled from his mouth - “Never a woman like you.”





	you touch me once & it's really something

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Sparks Fly" by T-Swift. I make no apologies for that. Or for this fic. Which is just "what if they got married and DIDN'T pretend they weren't in love with each other for ever, but just jumped straight into banging." Also, what if their friends were weirdos.

He couldn’t think of a more awkward time in his life so far, except perhaps last week, when Sansa and Tormund had had a _bit_ too much of that sweet free folk mead and competed to see who knew the bawdiest song. Sansa’s voice had been sweetest, but the things she had sang had been enough to make even Tormund blush and quickly confess defeat. Although based on the wedding feast that night, Jon suspected Tormund had asked Sansa to teach him every song she knew. 

Oh, the day before last had been awkward too, now that he thought about it. He winced, considering that challenging Arya to a duel had not been his best idea. She had trounced him, leaving him on his back, in the dirt, staring up into the sky of Winterfell with Longclaw yards away. A heavy sigh had escaped him. He wouldn’t have minded being bested by her - really! - if it hadn’t been for the large crowd that had gathered and bet on him. Sansa, as it turned out, had bet on Arya and was thoroughly pleased with the outcome, judging by the loud whoop of victory that had escaped her lips as he lay, unmoving, on the ground. _Gods,_ he thought, _didn’t anyone care that Arya had practically killed him - again?_ He gingerly rolled to his feet, feeling a bit miffed as he watched Sansa collect her winnings with a triumphant smile. 

The door opened quickly - he heard a smattering of drunken laughter and indeterminate shouts - slamming shut behind him and he froze, knowing his new bride would be standing behind him, having been escorted by the gentlemen of the hall (and he used that term truly loosely), stripped and thoroughly teased. He could hear her giggling, still, and a smile flashed across his face - it was good to hear her laughter again. 

He held a hand to his breeches as he slowly turned to face her - some wench had managed to rip the waistband completely - and resisted the urge to clap a hand to his eyes, dramatically protesting that he wouldn’t look at her, wouldn’t touch her. She would roll her eyes and mock him endlessly and wouldn’t that be a perfect start to their marriage. 

It had been Dany’s idea, of course. Sansa was the “key to the North” and “a bloody gorgeous woman” and “not your sister anymore, eh?” - honestly, he had been beginning to suspect Dany wanted to marry the red-headed chit herself. She had bedded him once, to be sure, before they had known about his parentage, but after witnessing the madness in her brother, wanted nothing to do with continuing the Targaryen traditions in the marriage bed. Besides, he thought ruefully, she had never looked at him the way she looked at Yara when the Queen of Pyke strode up to her, battle-worn and battle-scarred, with a fierce burning want in her eyes. 

So now, here they were. Responsible for the heirs of the kingdom. Responsible for children, he swallowed nervously as he repeated it to himself. _Children._ As in, plural. As in, more than one. The part of him that would always feel like a bastard brother of the Night’s Watch hissed his broken vows - but the sight of his almost-not-quite-sister-turned-cousin standing in front of him clad only in her shift was quite enough to make him brush the voice aside, mouth agape in wonder. 

Her feet were bare, and her shift only reached her knees and it seemed almost translucent in the firelight and he could practically see the curves of her body as she stood, arms held nervously around her waist, one hand twirling the end of her tousled braid, brushing back the loose pieces repetitively and her hair gleamed and her eyes - 

Her eyes danced with mischief and he quite consciously closed his mouth, fingers flexing where they held his breeches together. Had he been drooling? He had probably been drooling. 

“You act as if you’ve never seen a woman before.” 

He couldn’t help the words that spilled from his mouth - “Never a woman like you.” 

A smile quirked the side of her mouth. “What, so tall?” 

“Aye,” he winked and laughed. “Gods, this is strange.”

“Aye,” she agreed, teasing him as she walked over to pour a glass of wine. She offered him one. He shook his head, afraid that if he took a drink, it would fall out of his mouth and dribble down his chin and she’d think him even more of an imbecile. Perching herself in a chair near the fire, she shrugged as if to say, _suit yourself, you idiot, and stop staring at my naked body that is hidden under a too thin shift -_

“Are you cold? You look cold.” He swept a fur from the bed and draped it over her from knees to chin, sighing in relief when she was covered and he could think normally again. He felt craven, the way the sight of her body knocked him to his metaphorical knees - it had been a long time since he had seen a woman, and longer still since he had thought about it. Dany had been before the war, years ago now, and even the thought was enough to put him off of his appetite for breakfast. 

But here he was, about to bed the woman he had grown up with, though she had never spoken to him until that fateful day at Castle Black and gods, if he wasn’t nervous as a green boy. What if she hated him? What if it was terrible? What if it was awkward - more awkward than the rest of his life put together so far - more awkward than finding out he had slept with his aunt - more awkward than finding out his aunt, actually, preferred women - what if - 

Sansa merely eyed him curiously as he paced in front of the fire, slowly sipping her wine and peering at him from underneath the massive fur laid atop her. She could see him working himself into a frenzy and wanted to laugh, but she was afraid any loud noises would startle him into falling straight into the fire. It was bound to be a bit strange, but she thought it might be good - pleasant, even - if they both relaxed a little bit. Perhaps they could even other people. Tormund had confessed once, deep in his cups, about Ygritte. Maybe Jon could pretend she was Ygritte, and if she squinted and closed her eyes a bit, he could be the prince from her dreams - brave and gentle and strong, just like Father had promised. 

Thrice married now, and only a young woman - but she wanted to keep this one. This one was worth keeping, no matter how strange, no matter if they had to suffer through the bedchamber once a month to conceive heirs. She needed Jon by her side to rule Winterfell, to rule the North. 

Sansa nodded determinedly to herself, finished her wine in a move reminiscent of Cersei (heaven help her, she did _not_ want to be reminded of that woman right now, as she was about to slip into bed with her not-brother) and stood up, letting the furs drop to the floor. 

Jon froze, eyes wide like a deer in the woods, bracing for a shot to come. 

“Shall we?” She gestured to the bed, looking every bit the Lady of Winterfell, graceful and gracious and braver than he would ever be. He gulped nervously and nodded, allowing his breeches to fall to the floor, leaving him in only his smallclothes, kicking them at the last minute so they didn’t end up in the fire and catch flame and bring the whole castle running to keep the fire from spreading and all the while mocking him - Jon chided himself. _You’ve got to pull it together, man._

Sansa waited until he stood next to her at the edge of the bed, took a deep breath, raised her hands to cup his face, and kissed him sweetly. It had been so rare that she had total control, and she wanted to take full advantage of it. She coaxed kisses from his lips, feeling his hands tentatively settle at her waist as his shoulders lowered, feeling him lean in closer to her, feeling his hesitancy begin to fade away. His kisses begun to meet hers, challenging, and as he nipped her bottom lip with his teeth, she mewled and a shiver ran down her spine. Unexpected, she thought. Delightful, he growled, surprised at his own visceral reaction. His hand traced up the length of her back and buried itself in her hair as he pulled her closer. 

There was a spark here, she mused, flashing back to the time he had kissed her forehead before the war, that strange tension that had hung in the air that she hadn’t quite recognized, that she wasn’t sure he was even aware of - but she knew what it was now. He had wanted her, even a little bit, in the very back of his mind, in the corner of his heart. And though she had had enough of men wanting things from her, Jon tended to want things for her. He wanted to give her things, not take them, and so she found herself wanting to give herself to him. 

He pulled back and pressed his forehead against her own, slightly out of breath. “May I… may I kiss you?” A fierce redness spread across his cheeks and up to the tip of his ears - she hadn’t seen that since the time she and Tormund had come up with a particularly raunchy verse to _The Bear and the Maiden Fair._ She scrunched up her nose in confusion, and he thought it adorable, objectively speaking. 

“You _are_ kissing me.” 

“Aye, I know. I don’t mean on your lips.” 

Sansa narrowed her eyes just slightly, before turning her head and baring her neck to him and he couldn’t resist licking up the side to her ear, noting with delight the gooseflesh that followed his path, before speaking lowly, “I don’t mean here either, sweet girl.” He gestured for her to lay down on the bed and she suddenly remembered Margaery’s face, a wicked grin dancing across her lips as she had described the antics of her lady’s maid, and something called the lord’s kiss. They had both agreed it sounded quite debauched, but with a mischievous gleam in their eyes. 

She found herself on her back, with her shift raised and Jon between her legs before she could think twice. She found herself suddenly glad he had pulled his hair back into his characteristic bun, that she could better see the interested gleam in her eyes. She found herself lost completely in the sensation as he licked up her slit, and felt a pulse of desire race through her veins as she heard a muffled groan. 

_He groans at the taste of her._ It was a heady feeling, to be wanted such, and she drowned in her wanting, her longing, the chasing of a feeling she had never known. He kissed and licked and suckled and she whimpered and moaned, biting her lip to keep from making noise until she moaned softly and his actions became more enthusiastic. Sansa suddenly became less enthusiastic about keeping quiet, preferring to give feedback in the most pleasurable way she had ever known. A lick there, and she’d moan. A kiss to her core would send a jolt up her spine and a hiss from between her teeth. His fingers slowly probed her entrance and her legs began to shake - she was grateful for the weight of his arms holding her down, as she felt like to fly apart completely. And, once those fingers curled inside of her, once, twice, she simply shattered. 

Jon grinned triumphantly at her pleasured cries, content to watch her fall apart and to lick his lips at the taste of her - she was delicious, truly. But he shouldn’t have been surprised, if anyone could taste of sweet cakes, it would be her. 

When she came back to herself, panting and sensitive and still, curiously, full of wanting, she saw him lying lauguidly next to her thighs, a smug smile across his lips and a dark desire in his eyes. 

She caught her breath, reached for him, and the pleasure that had crescendoed with his tongue and fingers only started to build again as he pulled off his small clothes and yanked her shift overhead, tugging her body to his own, rolling so that she was atop him. The sharp peaks of her nipples dragged across his chest as she tilted her head to pepper kisses across his rough jawline, down his neck and to bit at the curve of his shoulder, wanting to torment and please him the same way that he had for her. 

Sansa pulled back, allowing her fingertips to trace lightly along his chest, hair falling across her shoulder to shield one breast from his gaze, her legs straddling his hips as she ground into the hardness between his legs, letting the wetness from her peak drag across him, rocking in whatever way felt good for her. His hands grasped her hips and his eyes closed and he threw his head back, biting his lip and whimpering. 

Daenerys had whispered to her during dinner one night just after the war was won, when Jon was brooding over some thing or another, and they were all a little too far into their cups, that she had taught her Dothraki husband about how women could be better riders, after all, winking lasciviously and laughing uproariously at the blush that spread across Sansa’s face. Jon had demanded to know what they were laughing over, but they had only refused. Sansa had been shocked at the subject matter at the time, but was now glad for the dragon queen’s loose tongue. 

Reaching underneath her, she grasped his manhood and lined it up at her entrance, slowly, achingly slowly, lowering herself onto him completely. His eyes had flown open in shock when she had grasped him fully in her palm, but as she sunk down onto him, they had become half-lidded and lazy with desire. This was a Jon she had never seen before, but she was finding she rather liked it, as she found her rhythm on top of him, grinding and moving her hips and coming off of him and rocking so that he slid back into her. It was a delicious sort of heat building in her lower belly, more urgent than the peak from his tongue. 

Jon had never expected Sansa to take charge, to quite literally take him in hand, but watching her writhe on top of him, breasts swaying and eyes half-closed as she found what felt good, he was struck that he had never seen anything so erotic and beautiful in his life. _How in the seven hells had he dreaded this marriage, again?_ He suddenly noted the wicked look in her eyes as she looked at him, breathing heavily but watching his reactions intently. She was tormenting him, the wicked girl! He resolved, firmly, to pay her back next time - and realized in wonder that not only would there be a next time, he was quite sure he wanted it to be that very night and perhaps the next morning as well. 

The next morning found them collapsed diagonally across the bed, breathing heavily, marks decorating their necks and scratches down Jon’s back and Sansa’s hair halfway across her face. 

“So, we’re wed now, truly. Wedded and bedded.” Sansa said, wonderingly, staring up at the ceiling of their chamber, trying to wiggle her toes and wondering when she’d be able to feel her legs again. 

Jon propped himself up on his elbow to look at her, his new wife, his gorgeous kissed-by-fire bride. “I, for one, quite like it,” he declared, a teasing smile on his face as he affectionately kissed her cheek.

“Aye, you would.” She rolled her eyes before rolling over to straddle him once more, meaning simply to kiss him before standing up to throw on a robe and perhaps indulge in a long soak. Perhaps Jon would join her. But as she leaned down to kiss him once more, the door opened. 

Jon could hear the startled shriek of the maid, and the clattering of dishes across the floor as she dropped the breakfast tray. He sighed heavily. But the poor girl had left the door open in her wake, and he really ought to give Sansa her privacy as she dressed around the corner, blessedly out of sight. As Jon strode to close the door, naked as the day he was born, he was treated to the sight of Tormund, Davos, Sam, and even Arya, who caught sight of the scratches across his chest and the bite marks on his neck, who had apparently been gathered there just to catch a glimpse of the newly joined Lord and Lady of Winterfell, and who fell into total disrepair at the sight of him, chuckling and laughing. Tormund, in particular, eyed him with a a particular approval as he clapped enthusiastically. 

“Knew you had it in you, Snow! And looks like you’ve got a good-sized pecker, after all-“ 

Jon slammed the door shut, face scarlet. He had changed his mind. This was hands down the most awkward moment of his life. Catching glimpse of the outline of his wife’s body as she dressed, he decided it was worth it - but they really ought to invest in a lock for their door.


End file.
